


Happy Ending

by Doceo_Percepto



Series: Bendy's Murderous Adventure Across Moominvalley [29]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine, Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Confessions of love, Other, POV Second Person, affectionate chewing, and i guess a teeny bit of burns bites rough oral sex torture and murder, but it's like ninety percent romance i swear, sweet fluffy romantic times, wholesome relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 19:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16667257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: You're scared.





	Happy Ending

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sp00py](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/gifts).



You’re scared.

That’s really silly, you think. Because you’re scared all the time (but it’s okay, you _should_ be scared, because Bendy and your papa think it’s funny, and it is, it really is). You love being scared, because it makes them happy. All that matters is their happiness. That’s all you’re here for. The only reason why you exist.

But you’re _really_ scared.

That’s even more ridiculous to say, because sometimes you’re so scared that you can’t breathe, and your limbs go all funky and numb. That’s a pretty normal thing. Bendy likes to laugh at you, and poke you, while you’re curled on the ground, sometimes seizing, but mostly just doing nothing but panicking. You probably do look really stupid like that. Bendy likes to tell you you do, but that’s okay – he likes it when you look stupid. It makes you feel good, that you can make him happy like that.

But you think you’re going to die.

You’re really full of silly statements. You always feel close to death. Bendy likes to play with you, and he plays very very rough. He hurts you a lot, and sometimes he hurts you bad enough that the Joxter goes real pale, and hurries to fix your wounds before you do something irresponsible like bleed to death.

You sleep with Bendy in your arms, too, and even when he’s little and docile, you feel close to death, holding and cuddling something that may at any moment tear right through you. And he wants to. You know he does. He wants to kill you a whole lot. Maybe that’s why something is different now. Why you’re scared. Really scared. Why you think you’re going to die, more than usual.

Because he wants to kill you more than usual, and the usual is quite a lot of wanting-to-kill.

He’s gotten very very possessive. Your papa keeps a wide berth from you nowadays. On some level, it makes you sad, because you do like to sit beside him and listen to him tell stories about Snufkins: Snufkins before Bendy came along, and the terrible things he did to them. You like sharing his pipe because it makes you feel very special (he doesn’t do that with just any Snufkin!). But he keeps a wide berth now, and you understand why. There was a Joxter not long ago, one rather chatty as Joxters went, one who understood the uses of Snufkins. Well, your papa was a bit hopeful about him joining the nest but he didn’t make the rules very clear. That Joxter tried to touch you, and Bendy saw to it that he didn’t. Bendy saw to it that he didn’t touch anything ever again. Then he’d crawled on top of you and he’d been all het up; you’d petted him and soothed him and it ended with a rough fucking where you bled from your cunt and was screaming for him to stop, because you don’t know what’s best for you all the time.

You’re still aching from that. He’d torn something, and it burns when you walk, or sit wrong, or spread your thighs. You’re grateful. Anything he wants to do to you, it’s good for him to do. You’re his property. It’s what you’re meant for. And the blood taste between your legs means he likes to lick you there a lot more, and you really love when he does that. He likes to cradle your thighs, and scrape his teeth over your most sensitive flesh, and he often gazes up at you with a look like he wants to just eat right through you. Sometimes it’s hard to climax with all the pain you've got going on, but when he looks like that, you often can’t help yourself.

He’s never told you that he loves you before. He tells you that he loves things you do, and he tells you he loves how you look, but never says he loves you.

Lately, he’s been finding lots of ways to tell you how much he cares about you, without saying exactly that. He breaks your wrist again – on purpose, this time, taken delicately between his fingers and snapped with an ease no mumrik could manage. While you moan and cry and clutch the throbbing wrist, he strokes your forearms, and your throat, and your face, and his expression is soft, so soft and full of care for you. The intensity and depth of his care is blistering; he murmurs that you mean a lot to him. That you mean so _so_ much to him. He seems torn, aching, unsure how to appropriately convey exactly  _how much_ he feels for you. 

You can tell he wants to do something else. He wants to break every bone in your body, and the impatient eagerness for that vibrates under his every reverential touch. He nuzzles your chest and whispers that he’d love to kill you, and you think that’s as close as you’ll ever get to a confession. It makes you feel over the moon, on top of the world, like you’ve done _good_. These gestures of affection become more frequent. He links fingers with you once, and pulls your hand into the fire, and smiles and smiles while you scream. 

That becomes his favorite hand to hold. He chooses to remove fingernails from that hand, just a few. It looks better that way, you think (because he says so). 

He doesn’t like to leave you alone. When he does, and returns, his greetings are very enthusiastic. Oftentimes it’s like him mauling you. You certainly don’t get out of it without injuries anymore, but you bear those proudly. It shows how much he cares. You like to look at them in the reflection of the water, afterwards. You like to trace your fingers over each and every wound he’s inflicted. They all are very special to you. You feel pretty. You feel loved.

And he's much, much more cuddly. He curls up with you every night, and presses himself so close, like he wants to burrow up inside your body and tear you apart from the inside. Sometimes he tells you about doing that, at great length, so you know he does want to. 

One night, he’s tangled up with you under your favorite tree, the tree they’d tied you to years and years ago when you were especially dumb and confused, before they fixed you.

His tail is wrapped around your thigh, his little body pressed close to yours, and his fingers are buried up under your cloak, caressing over the scars he’d made so long ago. He loves to trace them, too. He keeps squirming, trying to press closer and closer to you but you’re limited by fabric, clothes, skin and flesh.

“I really care aboutcha,” he murmurs, and his voice is shaky with the intensity of it.

You’re scared. And excited. You’d probably be wet, except you’re awfully raw down there by now. “I care about you too,” you answer with a throttled laugh.

He can’t seem to lay still. His tail clenches and releases and clenches again around your thigh. His fingers squeeze your side.

“No, I really care about ya,” he emphasizes.

“I love you,” you reply, feeling a rush as you always do when you admit it. “I love how you hurt me, and use me like I’m meant to be used.” Your thin fingers drift to his horns, and stroke. You’re shaking lightly. You haven’t eaten in a day or longer, so your pesky hands don’t want to cooperate. But you pet him, shaky hands or not, because you know he loves it. One of your fingers doesn’t bend much anymore either, but he doesn’t mind that. He’s so good to you. So understanding.

He’s silent. His tail keeps squeezing and it’s starting to hurt, just a little. Pain is familiar. A constant state. So you don’t mind at all.

“I love you so much,” you sigh. He’s awfully tiny, but you curl around him, and loosely drape your arms about his body. You nuzzle between his horns. He never says that he loves you back, but you know he does.

But he’s not relaxing right now. His hands knot in your shirt and he’s squeezing tight enough that if it were your bones, they’d probably be broken. He wishes it’s your bones, you’re sure of it.

“What’s wrong?” you whisper. “What did I do?”

He detangles a bit, and gazes up at you, and he’s not upset. He’s got that look he sometimes has, when you go hunting with him and the Joxter. That look right before the Joxter gives him signal of “I’m done now, have your fun;” the look right before Bendy’s teeth puncture into muscle and bone. It’s a hungry, impatient look. “I really like ya,” he breathes. “I wanna be intimate, Happy. Wanna show ya how much I care.”

“Yes,” you giggle.

“Wanna dig right into you an’ replace your insides with me.”

Oh, you can tell how badly he wants to do that. Once he says it, you want it to. You want to feel him up inside you instead of all the things you don’t really need.

His tail is wrapped tight enough around your thigh to make your leg go numb now. You whimper, and laugh, and hope he won’t decide you’re better off without that leg. You need it to play some of the more active games with him.

He doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself, or with the tense energy keeping him riled up. You wish you could soothe him somehow. You want him to be happy.

Then he pushes your shoulder, rolls you over so he’s straddling your chest. His fingers stroke over your throat and you instinctively tilt your chin up because anything he wants, you want to give. Anything he craves, you want to offer. And if it frightens you, well, then that’s how it is. You are very frightened.

His face is stark and white against the blackness of the night. He looks like he is nearly in pain for longing. He touches your throat, your cheek; he pries open your jaw and touches your tongue. You giggle pointlessly, because it seems like such a silly thing but you are awfully nervous.

Then he backs down your body, and as he moves, he changes; his grin stretches grotesquely and new sharper teeth push to the front; the shadow he casts over you grows larger and consumes you entirely. He backs up on all fours. Enormous clawed paws, now as dark as the rest of him, seize your thighs and wrench them apart.

You squeak and jolt, heart thudding. You couldn't close your legs even if you tried. But you wouldn't want to try. It’s important for you to be good. And whether he’s holding you or not, you know you’re helpless to anything and everything he wants. His desires are all that matters.

His head lowers, and the breath over your exposed cunt is chilly. Then his tongue pushes in. It’s wet and cold; your breath hitches. He’s never done this in his larger form before. You can feel the difference – he’s stretching you open with his tongue, and pressing your most sensitive part with thick hard swipes. It’s hard enough to border on painful, sending sensation jolting down your thighs and up your abdomen, making you flinch and jerk with each swipe.

You want badly to close your thighs, to curl up away from his tongue, but you are a good boy (and he’s holding you open anyway). This is what he wants, so it’s what he should have. It doesn’t matter how you feel. Your thighs clench and tense, your back arches involuntarily, and those teeth nick your flesh. You moan raggedly as little beads of blood bubble up. This is what he wants. That's good. You must be good. And grateful, for everything he deigns to offer to y-

He bites.

Which is one thing when he’s in his smaller form, but he isn’t.

You blink.

You look down.

His teeth are sunk inches into your flesh, a half moon from one thigh, over your abdomen, then to the other thigh.

You giggle, because you don’t know what else to do. Then it **_hurts_**.

You start screaming. Once you start, you can’t seem to stop, though you vacillate between breathy heaving gasps and shrill, tearing screams. You lose control of your limbs, and forget for a second he should be allowed to do whatever he likes to you, because you start beating and shoving at his head. Your hands slip in the ink, and soon the viscous stuff is coating your wrists and forearms, but he isn’t detracted in the least. He’s just – there, not moving, with his teeth punctured right through your flesh, and his grin perpetually wide.

Panic chokes away your screaming, so instead you make pathetic throttled noises as you struggle to draw in air through clenched lungs. Your arms are like dumb little sticks of meat whacking against his head.

Finally his teeth detach with a raw scraping of nerves, in favor of playfully snapping at your arms. This is a game you’ve played many many times before. He sometimes grabs your arms in his maw, and shakes them a little bit, but he’s always gentle, always delicate and cautious about your weak, frail body.

This time, he snaps after your arms and you jerk them away, because you don’t know if he’s going to be gentle. You tuck them tight to your chest, “Bendy-“ you aspirate hoarsely. His teeth descend back to your belly and his mouth opens and –

“Don’t!” you rasp. Your arms jerk out again to push him off.

His attention is snagged with the movement. Gleefully he latches onto your forearm, faster than you can respond. Bones crunch, and you howl.

He’s not stopping. You’re supposed be the Snufkin he wants to kill, but doesn’t. You’re supposed to be the one he keeps safe. Your heart is convulsing in a rhythm that has your entire chest hurting but it’s nothing in comparison to the searing fire from his bites.

You don’t want to die. This occurs to you for the first time in a long, long time. Because you always wanted him to kill you, you wanted to make him happy, and be anything he wanted, but suddenly abruptly _you do not want to die._

“Bendy,” you force yourself to gasp in a thin, high keen. “Bendy, please, I’m Happy, I’m your Happy-“

Then another voice says his name, one deeper but cautious: your papa! Your papa will get him off! He’ll help you, he’ll-

There’s a new, wet ripping of flesh, and for a second you stare down at the ragged bite that has torn away a large chunk of your abdomen without feeling anything, without hardly believing this is happening. The next bite tears into your stomach. The pain explodes again.

You must have passed out, because you come back to find your lower half raised up off the ground, dangling from the teeth buried deep into your midsection, your legs stupidly sprawled on either side of his head. Some of your guts are spilling out, all wrapped in blood, and weirdly loose. He shakes his head side to side, like a dog with a favorite toy, and your body limply flops and rattles. Your intestines tumble up and tuck under your chin.

He’s playing, you realize delusionally. He’s playing with you, like he always does, except this time, this time you're not going to survive.

You burp blood. It trickles up into your nose. Your hands stupidly reach to push him off, but everything is dizzy and blurry and nonsensical.

You’re aware that he drops you, and then he grabs your thigh in his teeth. Your leg dislocates as he jerks his head to the side, and your body is yanked after like a limp puppet. You don’t make any noise but for a quiet wheezing. You’re not sure you can scream anymore.

Finally he releases you.

Hazily you see him above you - his body, lithe and deadly, and his grin wide, blood and flesh dripping down and mingling with ink. He’s so, so excited. You can read it in his stance, in the low, eager growling. He’s beside himself. He’s having the time of his life. Then he changes back, and tucks his bloody hands to his chest and does some giddy dance.

You try to say his name, and more blood bubbles from your lips. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe through the blood –

Darkness is encroaching on your vision. He crawls onto you, and on some level you realize his hands are up inside your body; that he’s groping at your organs and wiggling his fingers under your ribs.

He whispers to you, breathy and heavy with ecstasy, “I love ya, Happy.” He begins to rip your organs out.


End file.
